“Then you had best be at your most persuasive,” he stated, and pulled the blind on his major-domo and the crowd of curious onlookers.
MICHEL GALLET returned to the carriage with the welcome news Miss Crisp could give His Lordship a few minutes of her time. She understood his master’s reluctance to breath a miasma that could very well cause him harm, but she could not come out to the carriage, of that she was adamant. She did, however, offer a solution to the dilemma. Dr. Warner had a private consulting room across the hall from the dispensary where their meeting could take place. The consulting room could be entered via a door that led onto the street, and was for the use of private patients only. M’sieur Gallet’s master could come and go via this door, without coming into contact with the miasma that lingered in the dispensary.
However, she would first need to prepare herself, because Dr. Warner had rules which he himself, his medical attendants, his student physicians, and Lisa, were all required to follow when leaving the confines of the dispensary. Aprons and sleeves were to be removed, hands washed and nails scrubbed clean with soap, to remove all traces of the smell of the ill and the dying. A few drops of Warner’s patented scent were then sprinkled on the skin to aid this process.
Perhaps one of the lads could wait by the private entrance, and when she was ready, Miss Crisp would unlock the consulting door and he could then inform his master?
“Such elaborate preparations, and all for a two-minute conversation,” Henri-Antoine drawled, head back against the upholstery, eyes closed. He had a sudden thought and opened one eye and looked at Michel, who was still at the carriage window.
“You were careful not to mention me by name.”
“I did not tell her, and she did not ask, my lord.”
LISA WAS STANDING by the desk of the consulting room, the door that opened out onto the hallway left wide, so there was a clear view of the base of the stairs that led up to the private living quarters where she lived with Dr. and Mrs. Warner. Past the staircase, further across the hall, was a closed door painted with the word Dispensary across the top rail. Beside this door sat Joseph, an elderly servant who had been in the physician’s employ since his first marriage, and now acted as porter, when he wasn’t dozing in his chair.
She had left wide the consulting room door so Joseph could see in and she could see him, because young ladies did not receive male callers who were not direct relatives or guardians, alone. Though the very idea this gentleman had come to call on her was so ludicrous as to be laughable. And although she had told one of the dispensary assistants where she would be and that she would return within the half-hour, she knew Cousin Minette would not be at all pleased she had agreed to this meeting, without Dr. Warner’s knowledge or approval.
Yet she was not nervous in the same way as she had been when she and Becky had entered Lord Westby’s residence, only to be mistaken for harlots. This was a different sort of nervousness. It was one of heart-pounding anticipation. She found herself worrying about her hair, and the sit of her lace cap, and the fact she was wearing a plain gown of serviceable linen, and her sensible half-boots. And it didn’t matter how hard or for how long she scrubbed her hands, the ink stains from the hours spent as an amanuensis for the poor could not be scrubbed away. None of this had ever bothered her in the past. It shouldn’t have bothered her now. But it did.
She felt inadequate, insignificant, ordinary. And then the door opened and none of that mattered.
FIRST TO STEP into the room was one of the beefy liveried lads. He took a sweeping look about him then opened the door wider to admit his master, who came in followed by the other beefy lad. This lad closed the door and stayed by it, while his twin went and stood by the open door that gave access to the hallway. Both exits were now blocked, leaving Lisa trapped with her visitor. Not that she felt trapped. Slightly unnerved by the presence of such hulks, yes, but her attention was quickly diverted from them to her visitor, who was taking a slow turn about the small room.
He stopped in front of her, close enough that all he need do to look her over was move his eyes, and without effort. He then planted the end of his walking stick to the floor by the toe of his shoe and let it lean outward, held in place by one gloved hand about its ivory handle with its diamond encrusted top. The knuckles of his right hand he put to his hip. With his chin parallel to the floor, and gaze direct, he thus presented himself, and waited, as was his right, to receive her due acknowledgment.
Lisa did not move. She could not. She was too much affected to do more than gawp at him as if he were a theater performer. Not that she had ever been to the theater or the opera, but she had read reports, and listened to her cousins talk on and on about whom they had seen in the boxes at Drury Lane, the performance of secondary importance to the illustrious personages in attendance.
Oh, but he was splendid!
He was everything she imagined he would be, if she ever had the opportunity to see him as he wished to be seen by others. Tall, lean, and angular, with a tousle of thick black hair pulled back off his face, his strong nose was just as aquiline and straight as she remembered it. And his mouth… as kissable as ever. The small horizontal crease in his square chin was a surprise and something she had not noticed when she had stroked his hair in the hopes it would soothe his suffering. It was also heavier, or perhaps that was because it now nestled in the folds of a white linen cravat tied off in a neat bow. And where he had been dressed in lilac silk at Lord Westby’s, this outfit was a pale sky-blue linen, the front panels of the waistcoat delicately embroidered with a tangle of vine and flowers, with matching covered buttons. And over this he wore an expertly-tailored frock coat of the same fine linen, with a high collar, tight cuffs, and short skirts, matching embroidery to covered buttons and pocket flaps.
She supposed his tight-fitting black breeches were of summer linen, too, and that the jewels encrusted on the buckles in his black leather shoes were diamonds, but as she had already dared to linger longer than was polite on such heady masculinity presented in such sumptuous finery, she reluctantly pulled her appreciative gaze up to meet his eyes, and with an expression she hoped did not reveal her thoughts.
A pair of black orbs stared at her with unblinking directness. She suddenly found her throat unaccountably dry. Pressing her lips together she swallowed and forced herself to breath. With that stare he could beckon forth any female he fancied, and no doubt did, frequently; show displeasure without the need to say a word, and did; and he could appraise a female from face to feet without revealing his thoughts.
And he was doing just that—to her.
She wondered why. Possibly he was trying to recall if he remembered her from their brief encounter in the passageway of Lord Westby’s townhouse, or was it because he had never before had to bother with noticing those beneath him in consequence. And then she happened to catch the facial tick that lifted the corner of his top lip. It was an infinitesimal movement, and one perhaps he was unaware of himself. But she did not doubt its significance. His stare might not give away his thoughts, but that facial tick most certainly did. He was aware that she had just been admiring him, and it amused him.
She was so startled to be discovered that she unconsciously put a hand flat to the desk, as if needing to support herself and stop her knees from buckling. Was it suddenly hot in this room? But there was no fire in the grate, and never was, except on Tuesdays when Dr. Warner saw private patients.
And then she castigated herself for her naïvete. Receiving the admiring glances and come-hither looks of females was a matter of course for him, as natural as breathing. All part of the social transactions within his world. But she was not of his world, and he was most definitely out of his milieu in Gerrard Street. And so perhaps it amused him to find himself admired by a social inferior. So why was he here, and why did he wish to see her? The Portland catalog came to mind but if he did indeed think she and Betsy had anything to do with its disappearance, then surely he would have sent the bailiffs around, no
t come in person to accuse her of stealing his property?
Suddenly, she realized he had spoken to her, and while she did not catch the question, she guessed it, thankful to still be leaning a hand on the desk. For if his person had made her knees unstable, his voice—that voice that was indeed as rich and as smooth as hot chocolate—was worthy of a dead faint onto a chaise longue. But as the nearest chaise was in her cousin’s boudoir she remained upright and, she hoped, indifferent enough to answer him in a clear voice.
“Lisa Crisp, sir,” she stated, and came away from the desk to finally find her manners and bob a curtsy, gaze respectfully lowered to the embroidered front of his waistcoat.
“I know your name, Miss Crisp. I asked for your age.”
This brought her eyes up to his face, puzzled. “Why would you want to know my age, sir?”
He was taken aback she would question him. “Why would you not want to tell me?”
“I’ve no particular reason for withholding it from you. It’s just—It’s a rather mundane question—coming from you.”
“Mundane? Coming from me? What question were you expecting me to ask?”
She smiled at his frown, and relaxed a little. Gone was the fixed stare, replaced by a look of puzzlement which made him appear far more approachable.
“I’d no particular question in mind,” she responded, and unable to stop herself because she had flustered him, added teasingly, “Perhaps you’ll think of one before you leave?”
“Think of one…?”
Her directness disconcerted him. He had wanted this interview to be short. He had gone to considerable trouble to find her with the limited information Jack had given him, and now he wished to thank her for her help in his hour of need, and be on his way. But the short speech of thanks that was on the tip of his tongue vanished like a popped soap bubble the moment he entered the room and saw her standing by the desk. Instead, he had asked her for her age. Why in God’s name? And she had the impertinence not to tell him. He needed to regain the initiative at once, before she startled him again. He should not have been surprised when she again overthrew his intent, but he was.
“Miss Crisp, I had hoped to conduct this conversation in my carriage, so as not to attract any undue attention to either of us.”
“But that must be an impossible task for you, surely?”
“Impossible? Why?”
Lisa blinked at him and such was her surprise that she took a step closer, wondering if he was being ironic. She had to ask the question.
“Are you funning with me, sir?”
Now he was not only disconcerted but uncomfortable. He set his jaw and the stare returned.
“I assure you, Miss Crisp, that I do not fun—with anyone.”
“Do you not? Not at all?”
Irritated, he wondered if she were simple. But one look in her blue eyes and he knew she was sincere in her incredulity. He did not know whether to be annoyed or flattered.
“Tell me, Miss Crisp,” he purred. “Why would I find it an impossible task not to attract attention?”
Lisa gulped. “You want me to tell you?”
“I do.”
“Very well. If I must. But I do not doubt for a moment you know the answer.”
“I do not. And I hope your answer, unlike my question, will not be mundane.”
Lisa’s blue eyes sparked and she smiled.
“Well?” he demanded when she did not give him an immediate response.
“Oh! So you truly do want me to tell you?”
When his gaze shot to the bare ceiling and then back at her and he remained silent and expectant, she lost her smile and felt the heat rise in her throat. There was nothing for it. She would have to tell him.
“Because you are exceedingly handsome, so it stands to reason you attract an audience wherever you go.”
The silence stretched between them and then he nodded gravely. The only sign that he was in anyway embarrassed by her honest appraisal was the sudden color in his lean cheeks.
“So I am told. But I come from a family of exceptional beauty. I am its thorn.”
Lisa gasped and then giggled, thinking his response absurd. Not that she disbelieved him, she just did not believe he could be a thorn in any family. She quickly put a hand to her mouth for her impolite response, but could not stop her shoulders from shaking.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Crisp,” he drawled, affronted. “I was being perfectly candid.”
Lisa nodded, quickly wiped her moist eyes dry and pressed her lips together before taking a breath and saying with a tremble, “I meant no disrespect, sir. It’s just that you are no thorn, however beautiful the rest of your family members.”
He threw up a gloved hand in dismissal of her frank appraisal.
“You might think so. No doubt in these heady environs, anyone with two working eyes and a straight back is considered a rose worthy of oils.”
Lisa lost her smile, and her blue eyes clouded, all humor extinguished at his jibe. Perhaps he had meant it as a throwaway comment to hide his embarrassment at being complimented for his good looks. Regardless, that gave him no excuse to be so disparaging of others, and his barb stung.
“Perhaps I was wrong,” she said quietly but firmly. “Perhaps you are a thorn. True beauty does not wear a mask. It shines bright from the heart—and regardless of where that heart resides on the compass point.” She bobbed a curtsy. “I am glad to see you looking so well after your recent seizure, sir. Now you must excuse me. I am wanted elsewhere.”
EIGHT
LORD HENRI-ANTOINE flushed scarlet.
She had rebuked him, then dismissed him as if he were a lackey. A girl in a plain gown and scuffed shoes, whose fingers were ink stained, the nails short to the quick, skin rough from work, and whose family were possibly one step up from the gutter, had dared to reproach him, the son of a duke and a double duchess, and brother of the most powerful duke in the kingdom.
He was outraged. He clenched his teeth to stop himself vocalizing his anger. Hard gripping his walking stick and counting to five was all he could do to stop himself turning on a heel and striding from the room. But then, just as quickly, the anger cooled, emotion giving way to reason as he recalled, as he always did when a situation demanded it, his father’s words of wisdom: Always control your emotions when in the public gaze. Love and laughter are reserved for the privileged few. Arrogance is a nobleman’s prerogative; but a true gentleman chooses to be humble when the circumstance calls for it. Never forget you are my son; others won’t.
He deserved her rebuke.
He had permitted hubris to cloud good judgment and been ill mannered. He had highlighted their disparate circumstances by making light of her surroundings and its people, and he a guest in her home. He had been ungentlemanly, his response that of a conceited jackanapes. His father would be appalled. And for all his ducal arrogance, M’sieur le Duc d’Roxton would never have said what he did in the first place. He must make amends for such a social solecism.
Jack said he owed this girl, if not his life, then the hold on his dignity. She had taken care of him, shielded him from prying eyes, soothed him, even washed his face, for God’s sake… He must’ve been a sorry sight… And Jack said she had not flinched, or failed him. He had wanted to disbelieve Jack, though he knew he spoke the truth, thinking this girl had to be too good to be true. And then he’d discovered where she resided, and that she volunteered her time at a dispensary, and it reinforced everything Jack had told him. And there was something else, something that had occurred immediately after he had come out of his seizure, that he knew Jack had not been party to, but this girl had. It was so deeply personal he wished with every drop of blood in his veins he’d been alone, that she had not been there with him. But she had, and she knew, and there was no point wishing it was otherwise, because there was nothing he could do about that now.
That knowledge, and his distasteful display of arrogance, only strengthened his resolve to make amends. And the soo
ner the better. He could then return to Park Street and consign this girl, and whatever uneasiness he was experiencing because of her, to yesterday. His life would return to its daily controlled rhythm; the façade he maintained that he was seizure-free firmly back in place, no one the wiser.
But where Miss Crisp was concerned, he was soon to learn, best laid plans were destined to go awry.
“Miss Crisp—A moment, if you please,” he requested in an appeasing tone.
Lisa turned back into the room. Not that she could leave even if she wanted to. The beefy servant blocked her exit and was not about to step aside to let her pass until he was given the order to do so. But she stood her ground. And so he came over to her. He made her a bow.
“Accept my humble apology for my bad manners. My comment about this place and its people was inexcusable. You are correct. I do wear a mask, and you—you have seen behind it.”
“You refer to your affliction.”
“I do.” Adding lightly, the facial tick resurfacing, “I am still a thorn, with or without my mask. I have a prickly temperament. My family will tell you so. But what they cannot tell you is what is behind the mask, because they do not know.”
Lisa took a step closer, head tilted in curiosity. “But how can they not? You have had the falling sickness since birth. So your friend confided.”
Henri-Antoine’s reflex was to curse Jack for his easy going confidences, throw up a hand and brush off her question. He resisted. For coming to his aid she deserved his honesty. He wanted to be open with her, and he was never open with anyone.
“I prefer not to concern my family with my condition. And so I go to great lengths to make certain, as best I can, that they not interfere, and that the world remains ignorant.”
“You can be assured of my discretion, sir,” Lisa told him earnestly. Adding with a wry smile, “Though I have no notion of who your family are, nor do they know me. Needless, I would never break your confidence.”
“Thank you. You did not mention the—um—incident to the doctor with whom you reside?”
Satyr’s Son: A Georgian Historical Romance (Roxton Family Saga Book 5) Page 10